


What We Tell Ourselves (the 'painting will make them want you, but not love you' remix)

by Emjayelle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emjayelle/pseuds/Emjayelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lifetimes. Five centuries. But only two constants: art and Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Tell Ourselves (the 'painting will make them want you, but not love you' remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jelazakazone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In the Studio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/427141) by [jelazakazone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/jelazakazone). 



> As soon as I read jelazakazone’s fun little drabble I was in love with the idea of Merlin and Arthur hanging out in an art studio talking about art. The art history major in me could not resist the temptation to make it into a historical!AU with some reincarnation thrown in because why not.
> 
> Thanks to ingberry for EVERYTHING, it wouldn't have happened without you (I wouldn't even have participated). A giant thank you to nu_breed and Sonofsilly for the beta.

  
_Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen._   
~ Pablo Picasso ~   


 

 

**~ 1657 ~**  
  
  


“I was quite taken with your work when I saw it in Mr. Du Bois’ study,” Lord Pendragon says. He bends and looks intently at Merlin’s canvases lined along the wall. “Even more delighted when he told me it had been painted by a local artist.”

Merlin says nothing. He watches from across the room as Lord Pendragon picks up one of the canvases and walks to the corner by the window to have a closer look at it.

The mid-afternoon light slants and falls through the slightly dirty glass panes, soft and yellow against the side of Lord Pendragon’s face. His skin and hair shine: blue shadows fall around his eyes and nose, softening into ochres and browns against his shoulders. A red stained-glass pane casts its light onto his maroon jerkin. The ruff of his shirt is a splash of white and soft violet against his throat. 

Merlin follows the line of his jaw, traces the bones with his eyes, the small lines in his forehead as he examines the painting, focused and intent.

It makes his skin itch. He wants to paint those lines, to meld those colours until they are shapes and lights and shadows, until they make sense. Until Lord Pendragon is standing there forever, looking at Merlin’s painting like he can see through it. Like he understands.

“How did you do this?” Lord Pendragon asks, not taking his eyes off the canvas.

Merlin crosses the room and stands as close as possible without touching. Lord Pendragon’s finger brushes very lightly over the satin dress of the woman sitting in the picture.

Merlin smiles. “Ultramarine.”

He goes to his work table and picks up a small pouch. He opens it to show the soft powder inside—strong deep-blue. Lord Pendragon slips his hand under his to peer closer, his fingertips warm against Merlin’s knuckles. He’s so close Merlin can count his eyelashes, see the faint umber shadows they cast on the rise of his cheekbone.

“Wonderful,” he whispers, then pulls back, letting go of Merlin’s hand. “And expensive.”

Merlin just shrugs a little, clears his throat. “It’s the shadows,” he says pointing at the painted red dress. “They’re not black, or grey or simply a darker shade of red. The shadows... I underpainted them ultramarine, then with the vermilion over, they became slightly purple. The dress looks crisper, better, more real.”

He turns his head to look at Lord Pendragon’s profile. They’re shoulder to shoulder now. He gazes at the strong descent of his nose, lingers at his slightly parted lips.

“Colours,” he says, marvelling at the shades he can see all over Lord Pendragon’s face, at the way they change in the sunshine. “Colours are complex, and never quite as clear as we think they are. They take on the hues of whatever is next to them, so we never quite see their natural state. A red dress would look different paired with a yellow shawl than with a white one, would look different in the greenery of a garden than against the blue of the seaside. There are infinite combinations, ever changing with the setting, the light, the time of day, the weather. To capture that, the perfect shade, is what I try to do. What I want most.”

Lord Pendragon turns his head and looks at him. Merlin is taken aback by the blue in his eyes, brilliant in the light, but deep and full, not unlike the ultramarine powder he still holds in his hands. Rare and precious. 

Everything stills; even the sounds from the street are muffled and distant. Merlin doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He only stares back, words perched on the breath he is holding, lost in the flitting colours of skin, and hair, and fabric brushing jawlines and bones. 

Lord Pendragon is frowning a little, eyes roving over Merlin’s face, darting to his lips, back to his eyes, pondering and calculating. He turns back to look at the painting in his hands.

Merlin takes a step back, then another, taking deep, quiet breaths. He turns his back and rearranges some of his tools on the work table, puts back his pigment in the box where it belongs.

“I’d very much like to purchase this painting,” Lord Pendragon says after a lengthy silence. “That is, if it hasn’t already been purchased or commissioned by someone else.”

“It hasn’t,” Merlin says without turning back. “It’s yours. Thank you.”

“I’d... also like to commission a few others, if that’s agreeable. I will provide for supplies and materials as well, including this ultramarine of yours, if you need it.”

Merlin turns back. Lord Pendragon is holding the painting loosely in one hand, head turned to look at the sky through the window. In this way, he is almost completely bathed in light, and Merlin wants to fix this moment forever, beautiful and regal and untouchable as it is. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Merlin says, fiddling with a brush in his hand.

Lord Pendragon only nods, carefully putting the painting back against the wall with the others, and walks toward the door of the studio, away from the window, from Merlin’s colours and space.

The sadness is sudden, heavy and surprising.

“I’ll get the painting wrapped and ready for you,” Merlin says, voice as steady as he can. “I’ll have it sent to your house as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” 

Lord Pendragon takes a step back toward Merlin, then another. “My... My family and I would be honoured if you would agree to join us for dinner tomorrow evening.”

Merlin has to breathe deeply. “The honour would be mine.”

Lord Pendragon smiles then, and extends his hand.

“Tomorrow then,” he says.

Merlin takes his hand in his own, lets himself marvel at the slide of skin on skin, soft and private somehow—the brush of a thumb against the back of his hand, of fingers against his wrist. 

“Tomorrow.”

 

 

**~ 1775 ~**  
  
  


As soon as Morgana leaves the room, Merlin puts the brush down and wipes his hands on a rag. He hears Arthur come up from behind him until Merlin can see him from the corner of his eye, bending forward to peer at Merlin’s canvas.

“You’ve made her softer,” he says, giving Merlin a sideway glance and a grin.

Merlin looks at the portrait in front of him: Morgana Pendragon, fourteen years of age, in a yellow satin dress, reading. As soon as Merlin had laid eyes on her, she’d given him this mischievous, crooked smile, a fierce spark in her eyes, like she was a moment away from doing something a bit sudden, a bit wild, if given the chance. 

“I thought it was preferable,” Merlin says, frowning a bit at his unfinished painting. Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You were right to do so. Father will approve.” Merlin nods. There’s still no denying that he would have preferred to paint her exactly as she is, though—a feral little thing in a domesticated cage—with flowers and books and rich tapestries, black hair carefully pinned on her head. 

“It still looks like her. I can see her in there. It’s just—”

“Tamer.”

“Yes.” Arthur chuckles. “You’re probably the only one who will ever be able to make her look that way.”

“Surely not the only one. You seem to do it well enough, as well. She listens to you.”

Arthur only shrugs and helps Merlin cover the canvas with a cloth, hands him some of his brushes, his fingers lingering against Merlin’s. 

“Not likely,” he says. “She only listens because that pleases her at the moment. It’s father who insists I sit here while you work, and to be honest, it’s more to keep an eye on her than on you. But—” Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist lightly and pulls him forward a little, and Merlin doesn’t even think of resisting, “I haven’t been very successful in my endeavour, I’m afraid.”

They’ve never been so close before, never filled so much of the same space. For the first time, the ostentatious decor of the room—the tapestries, the elegant curves of the furniture, the draperies—all rich reds, yellows, lavenders, and marble whites, are stifling and heavy around him. 

Arthur raises his hand along Merlin’s arm until his warm fingertips brush the skin under his ear, at the side of his neck, shaking slightly. Arthur breathes deeply, and Merlin thinks he must have taken all the air in the room into his lungs, because there is none left for him. Arthur takes a step towards Merlin, looking intently at him, a question in his eyes. 

“Arthur—”

“Please, Merlin.” Arthur exhales, soft and barely audible. Merlin curls his fingers lightly on Arthur’s waistcoat, tries to focus on the feel of the fabric against his skin. He resists the urge to touch Arthur’s face, he fears he might never want to stop.

“Arthur this cannot—”

“I know.”

“It will never—”

“I _know_ ”

Arthur is so close now, their chests almost touching, and Merlin can’t _breathe_ , can’t think through the clamour in his head.

“Just this once,” Arthur whispers, his lips barely the ghost of a touch against Merlin’s, fingers digging a little into Merlin’s neck. 

Merlin closes his eyes, wills everything to melt away, to disappear, and nods. 

Arthur’s mouth is hesitant against his own, and Merlin presses forward a bit, wants more of it, more of Arthur.

Arthur’s kisses are like the gardens Merlin paints—luscious and tender. He wants to spend the rest of his life painting them—splashes of pink and violet amongst tones of green, sunlight bouncing on leaves, clean, alluring lines of fine dresses and coats—organic and surreal all at once. They’d be full of towering clouds in crisp blue skies, of clear water and marble pillars. They’re a world made of dreams and opulence, languid and lazy. 

Merlin leans against Arthur, opens his mouth even more. Dread and desperation try to escape from his chest in a sudden panic. He needs to grasp and hold and cherish. Because they can never be anything more than the things Merlin paints and captures before they inevitably fade—beautiful, fragile, and ephemeral.

 

 

**~ 1888 ~**  
  
  


Arthur is breathing hard over him, around him, lips wet and opened against Merlin’s throat. He grunts and moans, nibbles at Merlin’s earlobe.

 _Come._ Merlin had said in his letters. _Come spend the summer here. Shake the city off. Bring your paints, your brushes. You won’t believe the colours. You won’t believe the light_.

Merlin crosses his legs around Arthur’s waist, and throws his head back at the friction between their bodies. He lets his fingertips trail along Arthur’s spine, slick with sweat, spreads his hands on the expanse of his back soaking in the heat of his sun-warmed skin.

 _Good to see you old friend,_ Arthur had said. _It’s been too long_. Yes, too long, and not enough. Never enough.

Arthur moves against Merlin, his hard cock sliding in the groove between his hipbone and thigh. Merlin loves the hardness of it sliding over his body. He shivers at how each upward thrust of his own hips meets Arthur’s down thrust and traps his cock between their stomachs.

Everything smells like summer, the whole world drenched in sunshine, in heat and saltiness. He knows there are crickets chirping and leaves rustling shaken by the soothing breeze through the trees, but all he hears is Arthur’s erratic breathing in his ear. 

Merlin buries one of his hands in Arthur’s damp hair, keeps his head there, where he can’t see Merlin’s face, open and raw. Where Arthur can’t see all the things Merlin wants him to be. All the things he himself wants to be for Arthur—bright, and harsh, and honest in their vibrancy, like all the colours he sees, paints and breathes. 

When Arthur pulls back, raising himself on his arm so he can sneak one of his hands between their bodies and tug at Merlin’s cock, their eyes lock for a moment.

Arthur frowns, says “Merlin” tinged with a soft warning, an exasperated sigh. Merlin shakes his head and closes his eyes, rolls his hips until Arthur moans and forgets. He digs his fingers into Arthur’s shoulders and arches his back as Arthur moves his hand faster and faster on his cock. 

“That’s it, Merlin. That’s it. Just like that.” Merlin bites his lip, hating Arthur for saying his name like that, all breathless and beautiful.

Arthur slides his hand up along Merlin’s chest until it rests against Merlin’s jaw and mouth. Merlin licks Arthur’s palm—two, three times—until Arthur groans, shifts his hips, and trails his hand down so he can grab both of their cocks together with his slippery-wet fingers. 

His grip is hard and fast, and Merlin lets go of Arthur’s shoulders, digs his nails into the ground. He can smell the dirt, the earthiness of it, and he pushes deeper, trying to capture it on his fingertips while Arthur mumbles curses and breathes harshly over him, under the midday sun.

Arthur comes first, losing his rhythm, and Merlin brings one of his hands over their cocks, dragging the pleasure out of him, leaving dirt in their sweat. Arthur smears his come over Merlin’s stomach, while Merlin frantically pulls at his own cock, warmth spreading through him, pulling him apart.

Arthur bends down and pushes Merlin’s hand away. He licks the come from Merlin’s stomach, then moves down and licks the length of Merlin’s cock with a long, broad slide of his tongue, before closing his lips around the head and sucking harshly on it.

Merlin cries out and comes, light blinding behind his eyelids.

Arthur drops beside him, his body not quite touching Merlin’s. Merlin swallows and tries to catch his breath. There’s a lump in his throat. Words burn his tongue with all the things he wants to say. Preposterous and impossible things. The space between them is too vast and empty. He reaches slowly and brushes his knuckles against the back of Arthur’s hand, unwilling to let go just yet. 

Arthur pulls his hand away and clears his throat.

“We’re missing the light,” he says, standing up, not looking at Merlin. He pulls his trousers back on, not bothering with his shirt. He is sitting back at his easel, paint brush in hand, before Merlin is even done catching his breath. 

Merlin watches him work for a moment, lost in his own colours and lines, and marvels once again at how they can look at the same landscape and yet see it so differently. How _they_ can be so different.

Maybe... If Merlin could make his body stop vibrating with it all, with the colours, and the movements, and the painful pull of living, if Arthur didn’t care as much about what other people think, or how his name is going to be remembered. 

If Arthur wasn’t scared to be forgotten, to be meaningless—then maybe Arthur would want him, even love him. Maybe he would lie beside Merlin in the grass and hold his hand while their bodies cooled. He’d wait for Merlin to catch his breath, would whisper words like _breathe, darling, breathe_ , until Merlin’s mind found its own calm, a still point within him, anchored to Arthur.

He’ll paint Arthur one day, before he leaves again for the city, for the life where Merlin doesn’t belong. His hair will be the same yellow as the moving wheat fields spreading along the curves of the hills around them, and the same bright shade of sunflower petals. His eyes will be the same blue as the sky and the ocean, alive and vast and forever. And there will be nothing else to see but these two colours— in dozens of shades and tones—because Arthur is only water, only sky, only a light that burns and burns and burns.

 

 

**~ 1950 ~**  
  
  


Lying on his back, staring at the slanted ceiling of his studio, Merlin lets his fingers thread slowly through Arthur’s hair. The sweat cooling over his body makes him shiver.

Arthur is sitting on the floor in his underpants, rolling himself a cigarette, moaning contentedly while Merlin absently scratches his scalp. 

Merlin takes his time to catch his breath.

His arm falls limply off the bed when Arthur moves to grab his notebook and matches from the bedside table. He lights his cigarette, taking long, slow drags of it, the way he does when he needs to relax, to catch up with his thoughts. 

Funny, the kind of things you can learn about a person in only five days. The way they smoke, the way they tap the tip of their pencil against their lips when trying to figure out something they can’t quite understand. The way they cock their head to the side and bite their lip when looking at a painting. The way they moan and pant over you. The way they like to be touched.

And how they look, too, in the cold winter light of the morning, skin and light-blond hair against a backdrop of cement, of wood, of splattered paint. And how their back is a perfect canvas.

Arthur absently flips through his notebook and fidgets, scratching at his two-day beard. He clears his throat, flips more pages, drags on his cigarette. Repeats. Merlin doesn’t say anything; he’s in no hurry to move.

“So...” Arthur starts, his voice filling the space, too loud in the silence, and Merlin grins when he flinches a little at the sound. “Why... why do you paint on the floor? Why not on the wall, on an easel?”

Merlin sighs. They went over this already, five days ago, before they got naked. Or maybe during, he’s not sure. But okay, if this is the way Arthur wants to play it, he doesn’t mind going along.

“I prefer to tack my canvases on the floor because it allows me to work from all angles. I feel nearer to the painting, like I can be a part of it. Like I _am_ a part of it.”

Arthur nods, satisfied that Merlin’s words confirm whatever he has written. “And your materials?”

Merlin sighs again and sits up on the edge of the bed, his thigh against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur wraps his right hand around Merlin’s calf almost immediately.

“Arthur, what... we’ve been over this already.”

Arthur just turns his head away from Merlin to look out the dirty window, and shrugs. Merlin bends down and kisses the top of his head. It’s an oddly intimate gesture, he knows, but he thinks he understands Arthur. 

After all, he’s still Merlin. This is his space, and his world, his canvases and colours. He will always be this. But somehow Arthur has to find a way back to whatever he was five days ago, before he came into Merlin’s studio for the first time, full of journalistic intent and enthusiasm. 

Merlin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that that’s not exactly how things work.

He walks to the small sink in the room, relishing the cool air on his naked skin, and splashes water on his face. 

“I used to use brushes.” He starts picking up his clothes around the room, giving Arthur the distance he seems to need. “Now I prefer using other tools—sticks, knives. It’s better for dripping, for splattering fluid paint. I like sand and glass, other things too, to create a heavy impasto. I like the texture of it.”

He hears Arthur hum his agreement behind him. Merlin puts on his trousers and undershirt, hooks his suspenders over his shoulders. When he turns around Arthur is dressed too, crouching beside the large canvas on Merlin’s studio floor, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking intently at the colours there, mixing and twisting around each other in no discernable pattern. His notebook is on the floor beside him, ignored, strong arms crossed over his knees, jaw square and definite in the white light of the day. He’s all lines and angles, golden hair and skin, solid and tangible in a way that made Merlin want him the moment he saw him. But it’s the edge of vulnerability in his eyes, in his too-boyish smile, that had sealed the deal. He is something fiercely beautiful. And he looks perfect surrounded by Merlin’s art, the way he looked perfect under Merlin’s body, between Merlin’s hands.

Merlin grabs Arthur’s camera and crouches beside him. “When I paint,” he continues even though Arthur already knows everything Merlin has to say. “When I paint, I’m not aware of anything. Everything fades away. It’s just me and the painting. It’s about making this connection, and letting the painting talk to me. I’m not scared of anything. It’s a sort of dialogue, maybe. The painting has a life of its own, a story it needs to tell, and I’m trying to give it a voice.”

Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette and nods slowly, leaning slightly against Merlin’s side. “Is it finished?” he asks, pointing to the painting with a small movement of his chin.

Merlin shakes his head and hands the camera to Arthur. “One more?” he says.

Arthur grabs the camera and grins at him. He lights another cigarette while Merlin prepares his paints.

Merlin dips a long stick in the bright yellow he just opened and it’s all he can see. His world is the paint, the canvas, the pigments, the arc of his arm through the air. The painting whispers to him and he answers back with a scream. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes—he never knows really—but when he comes back to himself, he smiles. “That’s it,” he says turning around.

The studio is silent. Arthur is gone.

His cigarette is still burning on the edge of the ashtray on the windowsill. Merlin grabs it and takes a long drag, thinks he can taste Arthur’s lips and saliva on it. He flicks the ashes onto the canvas, to mix with the fresh paint.

 

 

**~ 2013 ~**  
  
  


“There you are.”

Merlin smiles when arms snake around his waist from behind and he leans back against Arthur’s solid chest.

“Sorry,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I would get some work done.”

“S’okay,” Arthur mumbles, kissing Merlin’s bare shoulder. He reaches forward to grab one of Merlin’s contact sheets from the table. 

“I remember this,” he says peering at the small images. “That’s when we went to the beach, just a few days before...”

“Before you left on ‘your grand adventure’.”

Arthur nods. Merlin reaches into one of his drawers to take out some of his early proofs from the roll of film he took that day. He spreads the black and white pictures in front of them.

“I’m not quite sure what I want to do with them,” he says. “But I want... I couldn’t look at them for the longest time.”

Arthur is silent, picking up each picture and putting them down again, one arm still around Merlin’s waist and his chin on his shoulder. Merlin lets himself sink into the warmth of him, the clarity of his weight behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says finally, holding up a picture of himself squinting in the sun and laughing at someone outside the frame.

Merlin shrugs. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.” Arthur tightens his hold on him and buries his face into Merlin’s neck, and Merlin understands it for the apology he still wants to make. “I’m glad you came back, though.”

Arthur smiles against his skin. “Well, turns out it wasn’t so grand after all, and I wasn’t really cut out for the job, anyway. I much prefer being here.”

Arthur lets go of Merlin and sits on his desk chair. He does that sometimes, and Merlin doesn’t really know what goes on in his mind. He just sits and looks at Merlin while he sorts through his photographs, chooses his proofs, goes through his negatives, his contact sheets. He never comes in the dark room with him, says the chemical smells give him a headache, but he looks perfectly happy to just lean against Merlin’s desk and look at the pictures with him. Once in a while Merlin will pick one and show it to him, silently asking a question, and Arthur will nod or shake his head. Merlin will then do the opposite of what he says.

“Why all the black and white?” Arthur says. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked.” He picks up the picture he was holding up earlier. “I remember the sky being very blue that day. The sea also. It was very bright, very warm.”

Merlin smiles at him and grabs the picture. He remembers how the sun made Arthur’s hair and skin glow, how his eyes were a reflection of the sky and the sea, and how the whole world seemed to sparkle. But when he looks at it now, he also sees the lines around Arthur’s eyes, and the mole on the side of his neck, the shadow around his Adam’s apple, and the faint freckles over his nose.

“This is... I find this more honest,” Merlin finally says. “Colours are complicated. They lie and they blind. In black and white, things are sharper; you can see what’s truly there—the shape and the size of things. You don’t get so lost. Colours conceal. Without them, you get closer to the truth.”

Merlin slides a picture across the table for Arthur to look at. It’s one of Merlin on the same day, sitting in the sand, under a parasol. It’s not as sharp as it should be, a little underexposed. Gwen took it while Merlin wasn’t paying attention. In it, Merlin is smiling, all dimples and white teeth, and he knows he’s laughing at whatever Arthur was saying at that moment. He also knows that when you look carefully, wrapped around the shadows cast by the parasol on his white skin, the dark grey of his shorts, along the muscle lines of his limbs—right there, in the corner of his eyes, the slight grooves of his fingers as they dig into his arms—you can see his broken heart. 

Arthur sees it too. He reaches out for Merlin’s hand and squeezes his fingers. Merlin squeezes back and smiles at him.

“I’d kill for a cuppa,” Merlin says. Arthur lets out a long breath and chuckles. He puts the picture face down on the table, then smiles at Merlin and kisses him on the cheek before heading out.

“What’s this?” he asks. Merlin turns around and sees him holding a small wooden plank, splattered with paint, that Merlin had left by the door. He peers at it closer, then at arms-length, such a sincere look of confusion on his face Merlin has to stop himself from laughing out loud. 

“What do you think it is, Arthur?” he says. “Tell me. What do you see? How does it make you _feel_?”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. It’s the look he perfected in university while dealing with Merlin and his artist friends: a mix of bewilderment, fondness and exasperation of the _I hate you and I don’t have time for this shit_ kind. Merlin laughs.

“It’s my old painting palette, you idiot,” he says.

Arthur frowns at him. “I didn’t know you painted.”

“I did. Past tense. I tried it for a while in uni. Gwen found it in her stuff the other day and gave it back to me. Why it was there, or why she had it in the first place, I have no idea.”

“Do you want to try it again?” Arthur asks, putting the palette back on the small table by the door.

Merlin shakes his head. “Nah, painting never really worked out for me, really. S’not my thing.”

Arthur nods and checks his watch. “Shit, we have to get ready if we don’t want to be late for lunch with Gwen and Morgana.” He grabs Merlin lightly by the wrist and tugs. “Come, we can shower together. I’ll even let you suck me.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “How very generous of you.”

“I know. I can’t help it.” Arthur tugs some more until Merlin is in his arms. 

Merlin buries his face in Arthur’s neck and inhales deeply. No matter how much he talks about shadows and light, lines and shapes and colours, this, right here, this is the most truthful thing he knows. The only certain thing he wants.

“Don’t leave again,” he says into Arthur’s skin.

Arthur tightens his hold on him, brushes his lip against Merlin’s ear. 

“I won’t,” he whispers. “It’s you and me, now.” And Merlin believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> The different parts of this fic were _very_ loosely inspired by famous artists, their art, and/or their lives:
> 
> [ **1657** ] Inspired by the works of Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer. Arthur was inspired by Pieter van Ruijven, who met Vermeer in 1657, and became his patron.
> 
> [ **1775** ] Inspired by the works of French painter Jean-Honoré Fragonard.
> 
> [ **1888** ] Inspired by the works of Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh, especially the ones he painted while in Arles, in the south of France. Arthur was inspired very vaguely by Gauguin and the visit he paid van Gogh in 1888, as well as their rocky relationship/friendship.
> 
> [ **1950** ] Inspired by the works of American painter Jackson Pollock. Arthur was inspired by photographer Hans Namut who photographed the painter at work in 1950, for about half an hour.
> 
> [ **2013** ] This part wasn't inspired by any particular artist, but I always imagined Merlin's photographs to have the smooth haziness, and lovely sharp contrats of Sally Mann's b+w photographs. Particularly the ones from her _Immediate Family_ collection.
> 
> ***
> 
> If you see any mistakes and/or typos, or have issues with anything in my fics, please free to contact me on [tumblr](http://emjayelle.tumblr.com) (anonymous option is on) or on [livejournal](http://emjayelle.livejournal.com). Thank you.


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